“I will risk it,” she said. “But only because I am so bloody curious. Give me a moment to don something appropriate, and we will be off.”
* * *
Donata met me downstairs in only a quarter of an hour in a straight-skirted cream-colored gown with appliquéd roses on its hem, covering this with a long coat of red and green vertical stripes, its collar and cuffs lined with fur against the cold weather. A hat with five ostrich feathers standing stiffly from its crown completed the costume.
My plain suit of black with a subdued waistcoat of yellow and ivory contrasted it nicely, I thought. We made a fine pair.
Donata, however, looked me up and down with a critical eye. The ensemble had been made for me last winter and therefore was now a year out of fashion.
I saw no reason to throw away or hand down a perfectly good suit of clothing because a season had passed. Quite wasteful, I thought, though I suppose an argument could be made that having a new suit every sixmonth kept the tailor and his family fed.
I said nothing to her silent assessment—it was an old argument—and we walked out to the carriage that one of her footmen had run to fetch. The crest of Viscount Breckenridge was on the door, so we would not be moving about the city anonymously. I told Donata what the errand was as we journeyed the short distance through Mayfair, and her disapproval vanished as her curiosity grew.
Egyptian Hall was so named because of its façade. Unlike its fellow houses on Piccadilly, this one had three large pylons that reached from its second to third stories, with two giant figures intended to represent Isis and Osiris above the doors. Above those, over the window Isis and Osiris flanked, two sphinxes sat back to back around a winged scarab. The door itself was flanked by fat pillars. Very eye-catching when one hurried to and fro along the busy road of Piccadilly, but now that I’d seen the reality of Egypt I knew this façade for a fantasy.
The interior showed nothing of the Egyptian exterior—the building’s large rooms had plain walls filled with shelves and cases devoted to curiosities collected by William and George Bullock. There were displays of plants, pressed and preserved, shells, insects, and other things from the South Seas, an enclosure in the middle of the room holding stuffed beasts of fearsome proportions—ostriches, a zebra, even an elephant. One wall was covered with breastplates, pikes, and swords of faraway lands and past centuries.
I’d heard that the interior of this museum was to be redesigned this year to house the things Mr. Belzoni was collecting from Egypt, and I certainly hoped so. I’d met the huge Belzoni, who’d been a strongman in entertainments throughout England, in my last weeks in Cairo. I’d found him personable—he’d been happy to show me what he was busy digging up around the massive pyramids and discuss with me his previous finds. I was humble enough to acknowledge that part of the reason he shared these things with me is so I could spread the tales of his greatness when I returned to London.
Donata glanced about the collections with interest, in spite of her declaration that the museum was becoming outdated. We strolled from room to room, arm in arm, studying the curiosities as any married couple would. Donata paused to scrutinize the insects and flowers from the tiny islands in the middle of the Pacific, and I wondered out loud what it must be like to journey to such an exotic place.
“Grenville will surely go there one day,” I said. “If he has his way. He will tell us.”
Donata flashed me an amused look that also had some anxiousness, as though she thought I’d leap onto a ship with Grenville and sail off into nowhere. Not now, I could assure her. For now I was perfectly contented with my domestic arrangements and had no wish to leave England unless Donata accompanied me.
A group of Grenville’s cronies, gentlemen I’d seen at White’s and Brooks’s, had decided to visit today as well, but by the way they pointed disparagingly at the exhibitions or waltzed with each other around the open spaces, they’d come here for a lark, I saw, not serious contemplation. They were younger than Grenville, though dressed in imitation of him. One or two had intelligence and wit, I knew from brief acquaintance; the rest were hangers-on and rather ridiculous.
One gentleman gave a polite nod as he caught sight of us, though I suspected that if I hadn’t been with Donata, he’d have pretended not to notice me.
London society was sharply divided in its opinion of me and my marriage to Donata. Half the ton thought me an upstart, brought in by Grenville to pinch the best women for myself. The other half acknowledged that I had an old name, though my family’s wealth had dwindled, and more or less accepted me in my own right.
All envied me Donata. She had been born into one vastly wealthy family and had made her first marriage into another, not to mention she was young, popular, and lovely. Those against me muttered that I would try to heavily influence Peter as he grew, so the boy would favor me above all others, perhaps facilitating a way to get my hands on much of the Breckenridge money. Not directly, of course but through gifts, trusts, and other legal twists.
I was attempting to counter these beliefs by refusing to touch any of Peter’s or Donata’s money at all, and living on my half pay, which Donata said was absolute nonsense. I had at least consented to take an allowance which was more than adequate for my needs, annoying Donata by not letting her man of business make it larger. It was a point upon which my wife and I’d had words about off and on for much of the year.
The dandies parading before us now, their elegant black suits worth my entire quarterly allowance, had come to Egyptian Hall out of that ennui I’d jested about with Donata. Not to learn something of the world, of course, but to be as exasperating to others as they could. They were loud and annoying, two of the most unruly following patrons around the room and aping them.
One of the dandies, Lord Lucas Parnell, son of a marquess, I considered had more intelligence and better manners than the others. He frowned in disapproval at the two who were mocking the museum’s visitors and barked an order at them to cease. The two young men looked slightly abashed as they rejoined their friends, but not very contrite.
Another member of the group was Rafe Godwin, a gentleman whose goal in life was to supplant Grenville. I’d become acquainted with Rafe during a visit to Norfolk shortly before my marriage—he’d been the guest at an estate not far from mine. He’d been rude and condescending at the same time trying desperately to gain Grenville’s approval.
Lord Lucas was the man who’d nodded at Donata and me, and as our wanderings brought us closer together, he made a gracious bow. Rafe also made a bow, a fraction of a second after Lucas. I bowed in return, and Donata gave both gentlemen an acknowledging bend of the head.
We would have to speak to them, of course, being acquainted, though I chafed at the interruption. What I had not seen since I’d entered Egyptian Hall was any sign of Marianne.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” Lord Lucas said. We met halfway between a display of brightly plumed birds and a case of odd sea creatures. He hesitated before he addressed Donata, as though debating what to call her. “Mrs. Lacey,” he chose.
Rafe gave Donata a broad smile. “Mrs. Lacey,” he said, and extended a hand to her.
“How charming to see you, Mr. Godwin,” Donata said as she allowed Rafe to raise her fingers to his lips. Her ostrich feathers quivered. “Lucas, what a surprise.”
She’d known Lord Lucas Parnell since childhood, I understood. Lucas flushed and bowed again. His hair was a rich brown, styled in the disheveled curls that were the rage, his coat and waistcoat fitted to his trim body. His trousers, in contrast, were loose and baggy, as was becoming the fashion—Rafe’s positively ballooned. Lucas had hazel eyes that took in Donata and rested on her, his look turning wistful.
I had no sympathy. Donata told me he’d always been fond of her, but if Lucas had wished to marry her, he’d had a chance between her first husband’s death and my proposal nearly a year later. If Donata had been interested in Lord Lucas as a suitor, she’d have encouraged him. My wife was not shy ab
out going after what she wanted.
“I came on a mission,” Lord Lucas said once our greetings were over. “I have a message for you, Captain Lacey.”
“For me?” I asked, surprised. “What message?”
“I have no idea.” Lucas sounded pained. “I was only instructed to deliver it.” He took from his smooth black coat a folded and sealed sheet of paper, which he handed to me. My name, Captain Gabriel Lacey, was on the outside of it, and nothing else. I did not recognize the seal, and the name had been written in no hand I knew.
“Thank you,” I said. I slid the missive into the pocket of my coat, much to the disappointment of the half dozen gentlemen surrounding us. I suppose they meant me to open it, read it, and clutch my hair at its contents while they sniggered. I was burning with curiosity but I refused to perform for them.
“Shall we visit the Napoleon room?” Donata asked me, also feigning indifference. “Give my regards to your mother, Lucas. I hope she is doing well.”
“She is in very good health,” Lucas said. “I will pass on your wishes.”
“Excellent. Good day, gentlemen,” Donata said. She gave Rafe a nod. “Mr. Godwin.”
Rafe returned the nod with a bow, but his eyes sparkled in annoyance. He’d be wondering whether she hadn’t included him under the sobriquet of “gentlemen” with intent to insult him or whether she’d been singling him out as a compliment. He’d chew on the problem for days. I decided I adored my wife.
As we walked away from the group, Donata’s fingers tightened on my arm. “How tedious. I apologize, Gabriel.”
I looked at her in surprise. “You have nothing to apologize for. Godwin’s behavior is his own fault.”
She sent me a faint smile. “I know that. I mean for having to interrupt your errand. Lucas is an old friend. He’s out of pocket, poor man, as his father gambles away every farthing as soon as it comes in, and Lucas will inherit a bankrupt estate. I feel the need to be kind to him. If he’d not been with them, I certainly would have walked past the others with my nose in the air.”
“No matter,” I said and added in a low voice, “I can’t think what the devil is keeping Marianne. If she has led me here as a joke …”
“I hardly think so,” Donata said. “She’s not the sort who would waste time on a jest. I take it she wishes to speak about something important, and Grenville is not to know of the meeting. I imagine she’s hidden herself, especially with that lot about.” She sent a disparaging glance at the room we’d left, where Godwin and his friends were cavorting again.
We continued to stroll, pretending to be interested in the exhibits. Marianne did not appear, and the message Lord Lucas had handed me burned in my pocket.
The hall grew quieter as we ascended in search of more collections. From an upstairs room, I looked down to see Godwin, Lucas, and their mob depart, in search of other amusement. Brewster, who had accompanied us, watched them go from where he leaned against a nearby wall. The gentlemen took no more notice of him than if he’d been a stone pillar.
We thought we’d find Marianne once the gentlemen had gone about their business, but we never saw her. In a quiet corner, I slid the paper from my pocket, broke the seal, and unfolded at letter.
Lacey,
Please tell Lucius to forgive me. I have gone to live in the house of His Grace of Dunmarron, who has been wooing me for the past five years. At last, I accepted his offer. Lucius was kind to me, and I will never forget him. I wish you every congratulations on the birth of your daughter.
Marianne Simmons
I read the words three times, but none of them altered, as much as I wanted them to. Donata was staring at me in worry but I could not move my mouth to convey what the note said or open my hand to release the letter.
Donata, never one for patience, simply snatched it from me and read.
When she’d finished, she looked at me in shock. “She’s gone off with the Duke of Dunces?” she asked with incredulity. “Has she run mad?”
Chapter 6
Egyptian Hall was hardly a place to discuss the matter. Donata led the way out, as I was too stunned to do so, summoning the doorman to call her carriage.
Rain spattered outside, clouds having rolled in as we’d rambled through the museum. Our carriage approached through the crush of Piccadilly, drivers growling and cursing as Donata’s coach shoved its way to Egyptian Hall’s front door. Hagan, her large coachman, shouted back at those who railed at him—his snarl and huge fist made the curses trail off.
Once I had climbed stiffly in beside Donata, the damp making my knee throb, the rain began to come down hard. Brewster himself slammed the door then climbed onto the back of the coach, shifting his weight for balance as the vehicle moved forward.
Donata had stuffed the letter into her reticule but now withdrew it to read again. “Miss Simmons can’t have gone off of her own free will,” she declared as she scanned the lines.
“Why not?” I asked. “Marianne runs off all the time.” But I argued without conviction, because I had the feeling she was correct.
Donata smoothed out the paper. “First, she calls him Lucius, a name I’ve never before heard Miss Simmons utter. Whenever she condescends to speak his name, it is Grenville.”
“True.” I had observed the same thing. “But this note is in her hand.” Though it did not match the writing on the outside—not uncommon; some people had their secretaries write directions on letters for them. A duke would be lofty enough to keep a secretary at his beck and call who would be instructed to assist even his mistress.
“Never mind that for now,” Donata said impatiently. “Second, and more importantly, why on earth should Miss Simmons throw over Grenville for Dunmarron? It is inconceivable from every side.” Her eyes snapped with adamancy.
“Why do you say so?” I asked. “I don’t know Dunmarron—never met him.”
Donata sniffed. “Consider yourself fortunate. The Duke of Dunces keeps to his estate most of the time, thank God. He is very hearty, talks only of the hunt and shooting, whatever he can kill—anything his servants more or less hand him to destroy, anyway. He has a houseful of art and eagerly buys it but can’t tell a Botticelli from something his footman painted on his day out. He sits through a conversation mostly looking baffled then asks for all the jokes to be explained to him, regardless of whether anyone made a witticism or not. In short, he is a tedious excuse for a gentleman, an argument for not marrying too close to the bloodline if there ever was one.”
“A mistress might overlook his conversation for the fact that he is a wealthy duke on a large estate,” I pointed out.
“Not a woman who’d been the mistress of Lucius Grenville. Grenville outshines Dunmarron in all ways—Grenville has more wealth, more influence, better taste, better manners, far more intelligent conversation, and much more kindness than Dunmarron ever will. For a woman to run from Grenville to the Duke of Dunces is beyond belief. Therefore, she must not have gone willingly.”
“I take your point,” I said, my alarm increasing.
Donata’s eyes were sapphire hard. “Miss Simmons has common sense, I have seen, and she cares for Grenville. If she were one of the silly sopranos or bits of fluff Grenville has taken up with from time to time, then I’d conclude that she leapt at the chance to be mistress of a duke, but Miss Simmons is not the sort who would let a title turn her head.”
“I agree with you,” I said, convinced. “Where can we find this duke? If Marianne has been carried off by him, we must bring her back.”
“He will not be in London. His house is in Bedfordshire, and you can be certain he will remain ensconced there among what he thinks is his fine collection until he has business in London. By business, I mean to go to the ’Change and the bank and make certain his money and investments are all in order. Not that he understands much about them. He comes in once a quarter to hound all those who work for him until they wish him at the devil.”
“Then we will go to Bedfordshire,” I said. “I�
��d rather make a journey than break the news to Grenville. I’ll bring Marianne home and we’ll tell the tale once she is safe and sound.”
Donata gave me the look she reserved for simpletons. “Dunmarron will hardly take Marianne to his estate. He has a wife and six children. Do not pity his wife—it was a marriage for the convenience of their families, and she has a house in Town and plenty of paramours of her own. There is some doubt the two youngest children are the duke’s, a quite justified doubt. No, he will have put Miss Simmons into a house in London. I will find out which, and we will speak to her and have her return with us to Grenville.”
She sat back with a thump that sent her feathers oscillating. I saw the look on her face and decided not to argue. When my wife set her mind on something, the might of the entire Austrian Empire would not be able to stop her.
“There is subterfuge here, Gabriel,” she said. “I’ll not sit by and see Grenville shamed or Miss Simmons hurt.”
I warmed. “Nor will I.” I slid my hand over her clenched fist that rested on the seat. “I will leave it to you to find her.” Donata knew everyone in London and would no doubt locate the duke’s house quickly. And then I’d hunt up this Dunmarron and make him explain himself.
“Thank you,” Donata said. “I will begin at once. But I do expect you to take me with you when you speak with the Regent. He will be out of temper with you for making him wait, and you will need me to soothe him over.”
* * *
Our new appointment at Carlton House was for eight in the evening. Grenville sent a note saying his carriage would arrive for us at half past seven and we’d make the short journey together. The missive was brief and terse, Grenville annoyed with me.
Donata was a long time in her dressing room with her maid, and Bartholomew worked himself into a state trying to get me ready. I saw no reason to dress as though I were being presented at court—I acknowledged that I would be meeting a royal prince and so should look well, but this was a private consultation, not a public display. Bartholomew only gave me his long-suffering look and continued to try to coax me into my most formal suit.
A Mystery at Carlton House: Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Book 12 Page 6
